


World Enough and Time

by octobersymphony



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Bickering, Denial, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Reunions, Swangoose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobersymphony/pseuds/octobersymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't seen Johnny in three years. No rivalry at skating competitions, no accidental run-ins at L.A.'s hip clubs and restaurants, no catty exchanges in the media. And now they were both at Sochi, just like they planned to be (except <i>not</i>), and the fact that Johnny was here with him, in exactly the same situation he was, somehow seemed oddly comforting.</p><p>(Nostalgic Swangoose fic. Snark! Denial! Sex! Angst! Spooning! Not necessarily in that order.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Enough and Time

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write Evan/Johnny for ages, at least since the winter games kink meme that ate my mind all the way back in 2010 (those were the days!), but somehow I never got around to it and then the fandom sort of hit the self-destruct button after Twitter-gate. 
> 
> Three and a half years later, watching the Men's FP in Sochi, I was suddenly gripped by nostalgia, and this fic happened. It's not the same story I would have written after Vancouver, but I'm glad I got around to it after all this time.

Evan sleeps with Johnny in Sochi. 

It's a Friday night and they're drunk. Or at least Evan is drunk; he's not sure about Johnny's level of inebriation. 

But Evan's drunk enough to forget that he's supposed to be straight and that he vowed to maintain a professional distance, drunk enough to forget that Johnny and him don't like each other. 

It's hardly the first stupid thing he's done when he had too much to drink. It's not even the first stupid mistake involving Johnny. (Some of them, he can't blame on alcohol.)

*

Johnny tastes the same he used to. He looks the same too, spread out and loose-limbed on the pristine white hotel room sheets, his hair falling in a messy dark halo around his head. It should be a relief that beneath the ridiculous clothes and the hardened, jaded exterior, he's still the same old Johnny, but if anything it feels like a punch to the gut.

They're not supposed to be the same people. They're older now, more mature, harder, wiser, less vulnerable, and the days when they were like gasoline and fire are beyond them. If they're not... if none of this is true, then Evan's carefully constructed world is coming apart at the seams and he can't allow that. 

If Johnny's still the same person he was four, ten, twelve years ago, that means that maybe Evan might not have changed either. He closes his eyes and tries not to remember being seventeen and so much in love with Johnny that it hurt in his bones.

*

NBC was hosting an after-work mixer of sort, a horrifically boring affair littered with media personalities talking about sports with the same authority and knowledge Evan had when he talked about cooking. Which was to say, none at all. The hour he'd spent networking was more exhausting than a six-hour pre-competition practice session. Someone had offered him a drink and then a second, and now he was sitting at the make-shift bar, having given up all pretense at mingling.

"We should have been down there today," someone next to him said. Evan frowned, momentarily confused by the non-sequitur until he realized that the voice was Johnny's and that when he said _down there today_ what he meant must have been _on the ice, competing_. 

Nine out of ten times when Johnny made any sort of comment, Evan was inclined to disagree, but this was one of the rare occasions when they were on the same page. 

Still, to play it down had become force of habit by now. His shrug was automatic, stilted. "It just didn't work out that way," he said lightly. At least, lightly was what he was aiming for, but the disappointment in his voice would have been evident to anyone, and certain to someone who'd known him for as long as Johnny.

It earned him a disbelieving sneer and Johnny rolling his eyes at him. There was something so familiar about the reaction that Evan had to laugh, trying to hide it behind the glass of wine. He hadn't been subject to that particular look in three years, mostly because he hadn't seen Johnny in three years. No rivalry at skating competitions, no accidental run-ins at L.A.'s hip clubs and restaurants, no catty exchanges in the media. And now they were both at Sochi, just like they planned to be (except _not_ ), and the fact that Johnny was here with him, in exactly the same situation he was, somehow seemed oddly comforting.

"I missed you." The words slipped out because sometimes Evan wasn't quite in control of his verbal capacities when he was a little drunk or very tired, and right now he was both. By the time he realized that this wasn't the sort of slip that would go unnoticed – or even uncommented on – by someone like Johnny and he tried to awkwardly back-paddle, "I mean, I—", Johnny had narrowed his eyes speculatively and cooed, "Evan, you say the sweetest things."

"Shut up," Evan bit back, but he was smiling. 

Johnny, because apparently his mental and emotional age had never progressed past puberty, countered it with a smile on his own that was just a little too lewd and predatory. 

"Make me," he said.

And clearly, Evan's emotional age was somewhere on par with Johnny's, because that was all it took to rise a hot flush of _shamearousaldesire_ to his cheeks, and when Johnny more or less stealthily slipped him a key card to his hotel room, he took it.

*

They're not as young as they once were, but Johnny's still ridiculously flexible, folding his body in half as he pulls up his knees. Evan pushes into him slowly, giving both of them time to get used to the sensation.

Johnny's hand is on his shoulder, not pulling him closer or pushing him away but just clinging to him, fingers digging so harshly into the muscle that it hurts. His eyes keep fluttering shut, and it's obvious that Johnny's struggling to keep them open, trying to hold Evan's gaze. Evan doesn't understand why; he's unnerved by the intensity of it, the uncomfortable intimacy, but at the same time he can't bring himself to avert his gaze. He slowly thrusts into Johnny's body, watching the emotions dance across his face. It's not often that he has a chance to witness Johnny without his mask on, giving his feelings free reign and – rarer even, allowing Evan the chance to observe them.

"Harder," Johnny gasps, his fingers tightening their hold a little more, nails biting into Evan's back. 

If the term 'topping from the bottom' didn't already exist, it probably would have to be invented for Johnny. Of course he's pushy as hell outside of the bedroom too; it doesn't really ease up at all just because he's naked and breathless.

Evan doesn't mind. He likes being told what to do, as long as it's something he generally enjoys. (Truth is: there's a part of him that gets a kick out of being told what to do by Johnny, specifically. He chooses not to examine that part too closely.) 

So when Johnny bites out, "Come on, Lysacek, harder. I'm not made of fucking glass. Fuck me like you mean it," Evan has no trouble at all complying.

Broken curses tumble out of Johnny's mouth, and at last he loses the fight to keep his eyes open. Evan uses the chance to lean down and kiss him, almost surprised when Johnny allows it, letting his mouth fall open against Evan's and pulling them closer together. His arms loop around Evan's shoulders, fingers sliding through his hair and pulling ungently. 

Evan comes first, overwhelmed by the heat and tightness and the frightening intimacy, and Johnny gives him less than a minute to come down from the high before he gets impatient. It used to annoy Evan when he was younger, but he's feeling fuck drunk and generous, sliding down to swallow Johnny's cock. Johnny's fists tighten in Evan's hair, and he makes an unidentifiable, helpless little sound when Evan slides two fingers into him and brings him off like that. Evan doesn't pull away quickly enough, doesn't really care to either; and when he eventually does it's mostly because he can't resist the chance to look at Johnny's relaxed, blissed-out post-coital expression.

Evan's cock gives a brief twitch of interest, but he's not seventeen anymore, and the buzz of arousal he feels is more like a soft, pleasant background hum.

Sex with guys isn't something he allows himself often. When he has a girlfriend, he's committed to them, he doesn't go and sleep around. Despite the rumors – a good part of them fueled by Johnny's insinuations – the relationships have been real to him, even if he was never in with all his heart. There are never any boyfriends. One night stands, sometimes when he's single, but it's hard to find a guy he trusts enough to give him the means of ruining his reputation. It would be nice to have someone to fall back on. The concept of fuck buddies is appealing in theory, but he's self-aware enough to know that he doesn't do casual well, and he can't afford getting too close.

Sex with someone who knows him is different – better, more intimate, more intense, _more_. Evan tells himself that it's because of the long history they share, how well they know each other's bodies even now after three years of absence. It's merely familiarity that makes it different, it would be like this with anyone who's more than stranger. It's not about _Johnny_ at all. 

The denial leaves a stale, bitter aftertaste. He used to be able to fool himself. Three years away from Johnny, and he realizes that his defenses aren't as strong anymore as they used to be, as if they've been unused for so long that they've become brittle and weak in the meantime, easy to break.

*

"What about –" Evan begins.

He falters when he realizes that he doesn't remember the name. He's always been bad with names; that's why his competitors have generally been _the Swiss guy_ or _the Russian dude_ or _the guy who game forth at the Nationals_. It has nothing to do with lack of respect for them, or whatever else Johnny has made it out to be, sneering at how Evan couldn't remember something as simple as a name. (He never forgot Johnny's.)

"What about what?" Johnny snaps, annoyance in his voice when Evan leaves his question hanging, half-finished. "Use your words! I can't read your mind."

"What about your husband? I mean, does he know about— Do you guys have some sort of arrangement?" An open marriage seems like the sort of thing Johnny would do, but then also _not_ , because for all his self-professed need to be free, Johnny is notoriously bad at sharing.

Evan thinks he might have hit a nerve when Johnny's face twists. He almost wants to take the question back and apologize because it isn't really any of his business, but he doesn't know how to. The silence hangs uncomfortably between them.

"It's not working out," Johnny admits eventually, when Evan has almost given up hope that he'll get an answer at all. He's not looking at Evan when he speaks, and Evan feels like he's intruding on a painful, private moment. "I wanted it to." 

Softly, like he's talking to himself, he repeats, "I really wanted it to."

Evan remembers how happy Johnny sounded when he called him to congratulate him, the way his smile was infectious even through the telephone, almost enough to make Evan forget that weird feeling that made itself at home in his chest when he heard about Johnny's marriage, the one that couldn't possibly be regret or jealousy simply because Evan didn't allow it to be. Just like now, he refuses to acknowledge that he might be feeling the tiniest bit hopeful and buries it under sympathy he's glad that he doesn't even have to fake.

"I know," he says quietly.

*

He must have dozed off for a few minutes because he awakes from the sound of water running. The digital clock on the television reads '2:17' in glowing red numbers, and Evan doesn't feel tired enough to go to sleep again but not quite awake enough to join Johnny in the shower. It's still odd to him, the lazy state in-between; when he was training or competing, he used to go from sleep to alert within a matter of seconds, swinging his legs out of bed and starting his daily routine.

Johnny comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is still wet, his face clean and pale, looking young and oddly vulnerable without the make-up. 

He startles when he realizes that Evan is watching him. "You're awake."

It's not a question, but Evan answers anyway. "Yes." A pointless thing to say, really, but it slips out before he can stop it. Under Johnny's sharp stare, he feels awkward and tongue-tied, more so than usual, and he can't help wondering if what Johnny really meant was, _Ok, you can get dressed and leave now._ Then again, Johnny's never been one for subtlety. He wouldn't hesitate to be blunt in throwing him out if that's what he was going for. 

He still could, and Evan doesn't want to walk back out of Johnny's life yet, so he forestalls whatever Johnny has to say by blurting, "Come back to bed."

The moment the words are out, he winces. It sounds too demanding, too needy. It's nothing Johnny will want to hear, or Evan really meant to say. "I mean, it's in the middle of the night. You should catch some sleep before the show tomorrow."

Johnny looks amused. "I was planning to." Which makes sense, of course, because this is Johnny's room, and there's no reason why he can't go back to sleep after Evan left. 

Evan has all but resigned himself that he's going to be kicked out when Johnny pulls the towel off and slips under the covers, naked, using Evan's moment of surprise in his favor to manhandle his body until Johnny's back is to Evan's front. Evan's right arm is trapped under Johnny's head, being misused as a pillow. Johnny is heavier than he looks, and Evan knows that it's going to become uncomfortable before long; he'll be lucky if he can feel his fingers in the morning. He doesn't push Johnny off.

Johnny curls closer, pulling the sheet over them. His voice is more acid than usual, though, as if he needs to balance out the cuddling. "I swear to God, Lysacek, if you snore I will get my skates and decapitate you in your sleep."

It's such a ridiculous threat that Evan has to laugh, burying his face in Johnny's neck. The damp strands of Johnny's hair tickle his nose, smelling of flowery shampoo.

"It'll ruin the blades. They'll get blunt, and all the blood will stain the leather."

Johnny huffs. From how they're positioned, Evan can't see his face, but he's fairly sure that Johnny's trying to hide a smile. "It'll be worth it to be rid of you once and for all."

"Uh-huh." Evan means to say something else, along the lines of how if Johnny hasn't murdered him yet, despite spending more than a decade being more or less constantly peeved at him, he's fairly confident that he'll survive the night. There's a snarky little comment on the tip of his tongue that Johnny would miss him if he was gone because who else would there be to trade petty little insults with and never have to apologize afterwards. 

Before he can put it in words, though, he drifts off to sleep again, his arm unconsciously tightening around Johnny's waist.

*

His head is drumming when he wakes up in the morning, and his mouth feels like cotton wool. It's quarter past five, and the bed next to him is empty. He reaches over, brushing his palm against the rumbled sheets, feeling the lingering warmth that tells him that it can't have been long since Johnny left.

It's easy to imagine him tip-toeing through the room, sneaking out quietly, hoping to remain undetected on his walk of shame. (Does it count when it's his own room he's fleeing from? Does that make it better, or worse?) Easy to imagine, because it used to be Evan gathering his clothes and stealing away in the middle of the night. 

He flops back and stares at the ceiling, absent-mindedly continuing to run his hand over the empty spot on the other side of the bed. A smile steals onto his face, unbidden. 

They're a mess, the two of them. Evan is pretending to be straight, and Johnny is pretending to be happily married. They're nowhere near ready to give this thing between them a go, and maybe they'll never be. But they'll both be in Sochi for at least another week. And afterwards... if the past has proven one thing it's that they'll always find each other. They're drawn to each other like moths to flames, and perhaps that's not entirely a good thing or healthy, but with the hangover buzzing in Evan's mind and his muscles pleasantly sore in the way only a good training session or sex can give him, he doesn't feel worried.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy. ♥


End file.
